


Seattle to Suburb

by mandarinpear



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Humanstuck, It gets better I swear, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Prostitution, Sadstuck, cute boys being cute, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandarinpear/pseuds/mandarinpear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your name is Dave Strider. This is just what you do for a living."</p><p>In which Dad takes in a homeless Dave who happens to be selling himself on the streets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: PLEASE NOTE that this fic contains an underaged male sex worker. There is nothing graphic, but it is clear that sex is happening at certain points. If you are not okay with this idea, you may want to hit the back button.

Your name is Dave Strider. You are 14.5 years old, and this is just what you do for a living.

You are kneeling beside a dumpster on a piece of cardboard that has seen better days. In front of you is a man in a cheap suit. He covers your actions with his briefcase as if the dumpster isn’t ample cover. He reeks of cologne so much that you can taste it. It’s still not enough to cover up the smell of alcohol that seems to follow him in a thick cloud.

You have nicknamed him Case. He is one of your regulars.

You have many regulars. In fact, it was rare for a man to only visit you once. You would use this as a testament to your skills, but in honesty, you would be deluding yourself. Pulling the wool over your own eyes. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware that you fill a certain niche market, and it makes you sick. It’s something you really don’t want to think about. Some men at least have the decency to be suspicious about your age. To even look guilty when they’re done. Badge, the dirty cop you have in your back pocket, is one of those. Some men embrace your youth a little too eagerly. Flannel, with his beer gut and trademark shirts (with a wife and three kids he doesn’t “see near enough” at home); and Patches, with his three bald spots, and tendency to linger far too long after he finishes are among them. 

Everyone has a nickname. Everyone has a story.

“Are you really 18, kid?”

You glance up from where you’re kneeling between his knees. You unoccupy your mouth long enough to smirk up at the man towering over you. 

“Of fucking course I’m 18, man. You see all this fucking stubble? Like a goddamned forest up on this chin.”

You immediately replace your mouth. He looks relieved. You’re not sure whether it’s the lies, or the continuation of the illegal act. You truthfully don’t care.

There is not an ounce of stubble on your chin. 

It is not long before Case glances at his watch. He mutters something about his wife, and needing to get home soon. You pretend you don’t notice the look of disgust that forms over his features as he slips the condom free of his length, and tosses it into the dumpster. You also pretend you don’t notice the way he won’t look at your face as he pays you. 

“Same time tomorrow, old man?” you call after him, enjoying the slight falter in his step, and brief look of abject horror at the utter volume of your voice.

Yes, everyone has a nickname. Everyone has a story. It always amazes you how willing people are to talk about their lives once they’ve used your services. It always makes you wonder if you would do the same, were you ever in their shoes. But you can never imagine yourself paying for sex in a filthy alley while rambling about how your wife will never do THAT anymore in the bedroom, and really, couldn’t she at least try to be appealing? She doesn’t even shave anymore, and make-up is a lost fucking art.

You pull out your watch. The face reads 3:38 p. m. If you remember correctly, it is a Thursday. That meant that your least favorite customer was still to come.

You take a few moments to yourself to clean up and prepare for your next sale. The crisp new bill you had just been given goes into a sock with the others you had earned today. You don’t bother bundling it up into a neat little wad. That could be done later when you counted it.

You pull a comb from the backpack you had bought to replace the one that was stolen from you soon after moving out here. Your new one didn't contain much; only a toothbrush, cheap toothpaste, a comb, and two changes of clothes filled it. Other than those few personal items, it was whatever supplies you needed for work, and whatever food you could risk keeping on you. With the way this place swarmed with bums desperate for nourishment, you had learned quickly that food needed a secure hiding spot. That hiding spot was not in your pockets, nor was it in a bag that you would carry. That was stupid.

After taming your locks the best you can (and rinsing your mouth out with some water), you reposition yourself on your little piece of cardboard. 

"Hello there." 

Inwardly, you curse. Of course he would be early today. Of course he would. You still hadn't gotten the taste of latex out of your mouth yet, and here he is.

"'Sup, Suits?" You incline your head in a small greeting. "What can I do you for today?"

You smirk a little at how utterly uncomfortable he looks with your terminology. "I really wish you wouldn't phrase it quite that way," he chides with a frown.

Your smirk grows. "How should I say it? 'How should I pleasure you today, sir?' No? How about 'How will I be taking your cum today? In my mouth? On my face? In my hot tight little ass?' Any of those do it for you?"

His expression grows weary. "Please, if it is alright, can we just begin?"

You shrug. That game got old fast anyway. And really, you were just putting off the inevitable. You were going to have sex with this man. He was going to pay you for it. And you were going to hate yourself afterward. That's how it went. 

You stand up, brushing imaginary dirt from your pants. "The usual?"

"If you would."

"You say that like I gotta choice, dude."

"All it takes is saying 'no,' son."

You wince visibly, grateful not for the first time for the dumbass shades your brother forced you to wear from an early age. "Yeah, okay. Lead the way, old man."

To your annoyance, all he does is nod. He opens the gate further down the alley, leading you to a now-familiar parking lot. As usual, his car is parked just on the other side. 

You climb in, and shut the door behind you. He follows soon after, not putting the key into the ignition until your belt is fastened. A small smile quirks up his lips when you finally click it into place. You frown harder. 

He takes you a few blocks away, parking in an abandoned lot behind a condemned building. When you had first ended up in this city, you had considered squatting here, but had quickly decided against it. Too many drug dealers hung around the place. The violent sort of dealers. The sort that threatened you into buying their stock. Unbeknownst to Suits, you had struck a deal with one of the guys here. You give him what he wanted from you for free, and he kept your food safe. It's the only reason you ever found yourself on this block. 

Without a word, you undress yourself. You're not wearing anything under. It's easier that way. You recline the passenger's seat. It goes nearly all the way flat. You always wonder if he had picked his car for that particular feature. 

He slips you a bottle of the stuff he prefers to use, and you move to prepare yourself.

You hate this. You hate him. You hate his car. You hate the way he smells of tobacco. You hate the way his eyes travel your body. You hate the way he gives you more than your going rate. 

You hate the way he kisses you softly. You hate the way he spends half of his allotted time on foreplay. He caresses you. He massages your muscles. He trails his tongue over your skin. He stops to ask if you're alright. He asks if he's going too fast. He slows when you make a pained noise. 

He holds you when he's finished. He pays extra to hold you. He holds you, and he strokes your hair. He asks about your life. Your favorite color. Where you were born. How did you get that cute twang? 

You hate Suits. You hate Suits not because he is a bad customer. You hate Suits because he gives you false expectations. Wishes and hopes for things you know you could never and should never have: a loving relationship. A caring significant other. A father. Someone who gives a shit. 

You have come to dread the days that he comes around. Always on schedule. Always the same time on the same days. Almost as if he's daring you to run...or daring you to anticipate that he'll be coming around the corner to give you what you desperately deny that you desire.

"Why are you on the streets?" he asks you today as he spoons you. His arm is slung over your naked waist, and his face is pressed into the crook of your neck. You notice for the first time that his chin and cheeks are absolutely baby smooth. You wonder how many times a day he shaves.

You glance over your shoulder. "Why?" you parrot. "Why do you give a shit?"

"It's only a question, son. You're a smart young man. You could easily go on to college and make something of yourself. There are grants."

You snort derisively. "Holy fuck. You are dumber than goddamned dirt. I haven't even finished high school ye--" You cut yourself off, clearing your throat. Holy shit. You had not meant to say that. "I never finished high school. And I can't even afford a roof over my head, if you didn't notice. How the fuck would I go to college? Shit's fucking expensive. You know?"

Suits falls quiet for so long that you wondered if he had fallen asleep. You're tempted to just leave, but he hasn't paid you yet. As much as you hate to admit it, you need his outrageous over-payment. 

Finally, the rumbling baritone announces, "I...can imagine that you would be uncomfortable with this idea, but I have a friend with a boy about your age...." he trails off, as if gathering his thoughts.

"Trying to play hook-up?" 

"No! No, that was not my intention. If...you need a place to stay, he has hosted foster children before. His own son is adopted. He has a nice house, a well-maintained yard...." He paused a moment. "I had meant to mention it to you sooner, but--"

"Do I have four legs?"

You can practically taste the surprise he exudes. "I beg your pardon?"

"Because the way you're describing this shit, you'd think I was a fucking dog. Like 'oh look at the poor little puppy. Won't he enjoy this big yard and this little playmate?' Yeah, no thanks. I am fucking fine. I am not a charity case. You can choke on that offer, old man."

Suits purses his lips, propping himself up on his elbow. "Very well. I apologize for overstepping my bounds. I would take you in myself if I thought for a moment that you would accept boarding with me."

"Living with a man who preys on down-on-their-luck little boys? Yeah, can we not?" You hold out your hand for the cash he gives up after another pause. His expression actually looks a bit hurt. Not that you give two shits. 

"Until Tuesday, then." And just like that, it's all business again. 

"Yeah. Tuesday." You pull your pants on, slinging your shirt over your shoulder. You'd walk back to your alley. Fuck getting a ride from an asshole like him.

"The fuck does he think he is," you rant to yourself as you slam the door. You pull the plain white t-shirt on over your head, and start the walk back. “Trying to put me in with some stranger. Oh yeah, that’s a good idea. A wonderful fucking idea. Like a goddamn fucking Nobel Prize-winning idea. Yeah, let me just jump at the chance to go live with the friend of a fucking pedophile. Sure, let me just fucking do that.”

You spit into the street, ignoring the looks of strangers you pass. “Oh, and he’s got a kid my age, too. Yeah, I bet that’s a solid fucking household there. Nothin’ fishy going on in that basement. Nope. No ‘homemade movies’ or ‘father-son naked cuddle time’ or fucking ‘naked wrestling.’ All ‘oops was that your beef whistle I just grabbed there, son? Sorry, my bad. Lemme just take three hours or so to remove my hand from your cute little flesh dachshund.’”

A cop is in your alley when you round the corner. It is not Badge. He is rummaging through your backpack with a frown on his face. You wince as he drops three boxes of condoms on the ground, followed by the sock that held today’s earnings. You duck around the building, peeking back in to see him confiscate everything he’s found. He pushes the dumpster away from the wall of the building it sits against, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to run in there and attack him. That is a fight that you would not win. Shitty swords do not do well against guns.

You can only sigh as he pulls out the cigar box you had stashed back there. In it is the $500 you had saved up over the months. He confiscates that, too. 

You turn and run in the opposite direction. This alley is no good anymore. Not now that the cops had found it. They’d be staking it out. It was time to move on--and that meant starting over. Again. At least you still had some food left at the drug house, and whatever Suits had left you with this time.

Your name is Dave fucking Strider. You are 14.5 years old, and this is just what you do for a living. This is your life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I just really want to express my surprise at how popular this is getting so quickly. I just...wow. I am blown away. Thank you all for your kind responses! :D
> 
> Secondly, I want to make a note here and say that there are some very problematic things in this chapter. Aside from Dave being underaged, there are also his viewpoints on sex work in general. I want to apologize if this rubs anyone the wrong way, or flat-out offends anyone. His opinions are not my own, and he does have a reason for why he feels the way he does (which will be revealed much, much later). 
> 
> Also, I should put a warning here for dub-con. I'll add a tag as well. Feel free to read that scene how you wish.

It takes you almost a week to establish yourself somewhere new, but eventually, you find a new alley. New faces. A new backpack. 

Suits left you with $50. It is enough to buy yourself supplies and some clothing from a thrift shop. The drug house you were keeping your food in is now too far to walk. For the past few days, you have had to keep food on you. You become used to fighting off strangers in the middle of the night to hold on to what fills your stomach. It is different from Bro ambushing you back home. Bro never gave you anything you couldn’t handle. These people are hungry, desperate. They claw at your face, and pull at your hair. You joke to yourself that they fight like girls a third their age. It helps you to keep your mind off the fact that it is fucking terrifying.

You have new regulars in your new alley. A few of the old faces reappear, but it is mostly people you have never seen before. Businessmen make up the majority of your new clientele due to your new alley being around the corner of an office complex. The building is tall; a whopping ten stories. The building on the other side of the alley is just a bit shorter at eight stories. They make you feel small when you look up at the roofs reaching for the sky.

You yawn the fatigue from your body, pouring some water from your bottle onto your face. The cool temperature helps you feel a bit more awake. You aren't sure what time it was, and don't feel much like reaching for your watch at the moment. You're comfortable right now. It's a feeling you haven't felt in a while. You normally wake up with eyes darting to and fro, sure a strange noise was what woke you. Now, however, only the feeling of a full night's sleep lingers in your limbs.

You can't remember the last time you slept a night through.

You yawn again as a form appears near the mouth of the alley. He looks nervous with the way he wrenches a bill in his hands. You're sure he's going to tear the thing in two.

"Um...is the kid here?" he asks, and his tone doesn't surprise you. You’re used to hearing that sort of tentativeness from first-timers.

"Depends," you call back. "You lookin' for the little cocksucker?"

You watch him wince from where you're huddled in the corner under an over-sized sweatshirt you've been using as a blanket. 

"Yes?" he answers, his tone unsure.

"Then you found him. Congrats. I'd give you a gold fucking star, but I think you'd rather have the blowjob."

He winces again. "Please, can you keep your voice down? I don't want anyone knowing I'm here."

"Yeah, okay. Wouldn't be good if the wife came around and saw you fucking the mouth of a little boy, right?"

You expect him to turn tail and run, but all he does is shake his head. "I'm on my lunch break. My co-workers are nearby."

"You work here?"

He approaches you, glancing behind him every few steps. "Yes."

He asks about your going rates, and you give him your usual prices. He is unfazed. He seems to have grown a bit more confident. You aren't sure you like that. 

You toss the shirt aside, and reach for your supplies. "So what'll it be?" 

"Actually...I have a proposition. I'll double what you're asking."

You do not pause before you answer. "Shoot."

And that is how you, Dave Strider, end up standing in the lobby of an office building in a pair of nice, well-fitting jeans, and a crisp dress-shirt. You're even wearing a tie, though it is a bit too long on you.

"It's 'bring your son to work' day," the man old enough to be your father says beside you. "I don't have any kids of my own. Those are actually my nephew's clothes. I normally bring him, but he couldn’t come this time."

He greets the security guard, and ushers you toward the elevator. "He looks a bit like you. I think you two might be right around the same age." 

His hand is on your lower back. It slips just a few times, finally falling down to where it was obviously meant to have been from the beginning once the doors close. 

You feel sick. 

You might just vomit on this guy's dick. You have never in all these long months have someone admit that they're imagining you to be someone they'd like to fuck. It enrages you in a way you're not sure you're justified to be. After all, aren't you just as bad as this guy is? You're playing along with it.

You find yourself shaking your head slightly, breath leaving you in a long sigh. 

You watch the numbers change as the elevator climbs up the tall building. You had hoped this guy worked on the second or third floor, but no, of course he had to work near the top. It was just your luck.

"His name is Nate."

Oh. He's still talking. You take a moment to decide whether it's worth it to pay attention to anything he's saying. 

"He's fifteen. He calls me Uncle Jimmy." 

His eyes slide to yours. You can't bring yourself to meet his gaze. Luckily, the shades hide that fact. You suddenly want to send Bro roses, and not in an ironic way.

"Will you call me Uncle Jimmy?"

You're glad you haven't eaten today. You're pretty sure you would be tasting that food, otherwise. "It's your money," you say, glad you're tone is casual. It doesn't betray a single thing. Bro really would be proud.

He nods. He looks satisfied. 

"So where're we going, Uncle Jimmy?" There is a tinge of sarcasm in your voice. You don't care to mask it.

Either he doesn't catch on, or he just doesn't give a shit. He points up to the display as it comes to a stop on floor eight.

"Right here, kiddo."

Cubicles fill the floor in a complex labyrinth of boring. The sea of suits is almost blinding. You thank fuck you have a tour guide, because otherwise, you would surely get lost in the waves of "hello, wonderful weather we're having lately!"

Actual offices line the back wall. He pulls you into one of them. The nameplate reads "Jim Jacobs." You would pity the poor man for being stuck with such a wonderfully unique fucking name if you weren't about to suck his dick while he pretends it's his nephew.

"So what is it that my Uncle Jimmy does all day?" you ask instead of the obvious. 

There is an overstuffed armchair in the corner of the small office. You immediately claim it as yours, flopping into its cushy warmth, and draping your legs over the side.

"I sell insurance."

Now that you think about it, that is a pretty obvious fucking thing. Of course he sells insurance. What else would he do?

"What kind?"

He shrugs. "Do you...really care?"

"No."

A cough sounds from him. "Should I...outline to you what it is that I want, then?"

You lift a shoulder, feigning a yawn. 

"Under my desk while I meet with clients. Is that understandable?"

It takes an amazing amount of control that you are surprised you even possess to not burst something inside of you from laughing. You give him your best blank stare, and poise your lips to say, "Yes, that is totally doable."

What comes out, however, sounds more like, "Are you fucking serious? That is so goddamn cliche, it goes all the way to irony, then does a 180 back to 'stupid.'" 

You frown. That's funny, you think. What you intended to say does not sound a bit like what came from your mouth. Huh. Imagine that.

To his credit, he does turn a bit pink in the cheeks. You almost think it's adorable, but then remember who he is and what he wants. Nope. He isn't allowed to be adorable. He has revoked all rights to ever be adorable again. 

"Okay. So let me get this straight. You want me under your desk like some politician's mistress, while your unsuspecting clients come in and get cheated on insurance claims. That about right?"

"I'd also like to bend you over my desk. Eventually."

You wonder where the fuck the embarrassed guy in the alley went, because that was so far out of left field, he may as well have been replaced by aliens while you weren't paying attention.

You stare at him for a long time, knowing you should just shrug and accept it, but the thought still rolls around in your mind that this guy wants his dick in your ass while you are wearing his nephew's clothes and calling him 'Uncle Jimmy.' You have put up with a lot of fucking bullshit from clients. You have allowed them to dress you up and call you pet names. You have dealt with enough weird fetishes to make Bro's interests look downright tame. You have choked back guilt and shame and embarrassment through the long months of meeting with married men. And Suits. You have put up with fucking Suits.

But this? You're thinking that this might actually be the Thing. You think it might be the One Thing that you just are Not Okay with. You have spoken with others in your profession. They have told you things. "Everyone has a limit. Be careful that they respect yours," they told you. 

You didn't believe you had a limit. You thought you would do anything to earn your living. You thought you HAD done anything to earn a living. You take a look at your life, and suddenly, you hate yourself very much. 

A feeling sinks into your gut. Days, weeks, months of repressed self-loathing come and hit you all at once. A choked-off gasp breaks the silence between the two of you. 

"I...," you manage. It is all you manage. 

You life was not a fucking picture book before, but it was not even comparable to what it is now. You wonder how it got to be like this. Was this life even worth it? Was this worth the freedom? You're unsure. All of your choices are staring you in the face, swirling around your head in some morbid mockery of your ability to problem solve.

"That's fine."

You don't know how you get the words out. You don't know what propels you forward. You suddenly find yourself on your knees under the heavy wooden desk in his tidy little office. Was it the thought of being able to eat for a few days? Was it the thought of adding more cash to your stash? You wonder, as you hear cheerful voices enter the room, what you are even planning on doing with that money. Were you expecting to be able to save up for an apartment? That is stupid. You are stupid. This is stupid.

The taste of latex is nauseating. It's thick in your mouth. It fills your nostrils even while you aren't breathing. It is a scent that follows you. You are sure others can smell it on you. You are suddenly so sure that when you walk into a store, people know. "That boy is a whore," they whisper amongst themselves.

The door opens and closes in a rhythm you can't predict. Your mind goes fuzzy, and you can't explain why. You find yourself lost in your thoughts, mind numbing to a point that, when your mouth is suddenly empty, you don't understand what is happening. 

"Nate," he whispers harshly. 

You frown. That is not your name.

"It's Dave," you choke.

A hand is in your hair. You think. Something is resting on your head, and then you are on your feet.

"No. You're Nate. And I'm 'Uncle Jimmy.' Remember?"

You nod stupidly, turning to face the solid oak wood on nothing but instinct. That word feels wrong somehow. Instinct. When had this become instinct? When had this become automatic? Something you did without thinking. When was it that sex was so normal? An eventual end to most of your conversations? 

You frown, pain bringing you back into yourself. 

"Fuck."

You're dimly aware that your ass was just slapped. 

Senses come rushing back at a sickening speed. His noises. The sounds of his flesh slapping against yours. The blurry sight of the wall on the opposite side of the room. The smell of sweat and cologne and furniture polish. Your fingers clench around the wood, knuckles turning white.

A knock sounds at the door, and he stills. You're unsure whether or not to be grateful. 

"Mr. Jacobs?" a voice calls through the wood. "Pardon my intrusion, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind looking over these documents."

You slump onto the wooden surface, cheek pressed to the cool wood. It feels good against your heated skin. You realize for the first time that your wrists are bound by the tie that was once around your neck. Your shirt is also open, pulled up to expose half your back, but still on. Your pants are halfway to your knees. Your dick is uncomfortably squeezed between your legs. 

You feel absolutely ridiculous for not noticing any of this sooner. 

"Don't come in just yet!" he says a bit too loudly, voice rushed and thick with sex.

"So obvious." It takes two tries before the words come. 

His fingers grip your hips painfully. 

You would not be surprised if the man on the other side of the door could hear what was going on in here. The idea of that brings a new wave of nausea. It is different from the feeling that comes from being fucked in a parked car. Somehow. You can't quite put a finger on it, but it is decidedly different. Maybe it’s the fact that that man might know. The public is unaware of what is going on in that one car in that one parking lot, but this man might know. He might be hearing “Uncle Jim” slamming into you. He might see your face, and he will know that you were fucked in this office.

It feels like your first time all over again. 

You feel dirty. You feel so dirty. There are not enough showers. Soap cannot cleanse morality. You briefly wonder if you ever had any to begin with. You fell so easily into this lifestyle. 

He fastens his pants, and moves to the door. You are nowhere near ready to be seen by anyone but the man who will be paying you.

Your eyes widen behind your askance shades. You sputter uncoolly, trying desperately to get your clothes into a decent fashion. For someone who was so concerned earlier about his coworkers finding him in that alley, he sure doesn't give a shit about them thinking he's fucking a relative, you think sourly. 

Realization hits like a brick wall. You feel like the biggest dumbass to ever exist. You cannot believe you didn't see through that act. It must have been an act. Something to pacify you. Make you pliable. You would not have agreed to doing this for just anyone. If you are honest with yourself, the money just sweetened things. You had really felt bad for this guy, despite mocking his nervousness. 

You wonder how many others he's lured into his office.

Brown eyes catch yours through the door, and you think you come close to passing out. Blood rushes to your head fast enough to make you light-headed and more wobbly than you already are. 

There is a soft exchange that you are unable to hear over the sound of your heart beating in your ears. A steady pulse that drowns out everything. The world is smudged white around the edges. 

You undo the knot in the tie with your teeth. You drop the obnoxious thing to the surface of the desk. Your clothes are rearranged. You wonder if he wants them back. You are back to not caring.

"We done here?" You're proud of the confidence in your tone.

He nods, and drops a clip of cash on the surface in front of you. "If you're up for it, that man expressed interest."

He then grins like he's sharing a big secret. "I thought I'd get you more business if I could. You did so well, Dave. Thanks."

You start at the sound of your real name. You need to get out of here. You are suffocated by the urge. Downright claustrophobic with the need to be away from this man. He should not know who you are. It is important that nobody knows who you are. These activities are not to be connected with Actual Person Dave Strider. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’re a real fucking prize, Jimbo. Gonna wed somebody in pure matrimonial bliss someday.” You give him a mock salute, and stiffly walk to the door. You’re proud that you’ve hidden limp in your step. 

You refuse to give Jim “I want to fuck my nephew” Jacobs the satisfaction of seeing you in pain. 

“Some people need to be fucking sterilized,” you mutter to yourself as the door slams behind you. “No way that dude should have kids. Shit ain’t right.”

“Is it not a little impolite to talk about your uncle in such terms?”

You barely suppress the surprise at hearing the voice beside you. Your head whips around, though your face remains mostly composed. 

Those eyes. That voice. This was the guy Jimbo had been talking about. 

“He knows I love him,” you say in a monotone that would make the Dry Eyes guy proud.

“Ah. Then in that case....” He trails off, his brows pinching together briefly. You don’t quite catch the expression well enough to put a name to it. “Why don’t we have a talk in my office?”

You hold back a sigh, merely nodding with a not-quite-concealed dejection. “Lead the way.”

Your eyes dart left and right immediately. You are considering making a run for it. A sudden wave of panic rushes through you. You have no explanation for it. This is nothing but another job offer. Why on earth should you be this worried?

You freeze in front of the door, two things finally coming together to form a final question. This man knows. He knows who you are and what you do. Why the hell was he asking about Jim like he was still your uncle? 'To provide a cover for anyone who might be listening,' your brain helpfully provides as you step into the small corner office. 

It's furnished sparsely--there is nothing but a bookshelf, a desk and chair, two chairs for clients, and a wastebasket. The last guy had a few large plants in his room, you remember now. You wonder why his office is so simple, then wonder why you suddenly care so much. 

Your face shows surprise before you can stop it. There is one addition to this room that was not in the last. A boy about your age stands by the bookshelf fiddling with his phone. He looks up as you enter, a skeptical look on his face.

"Son, would you mind fetching a few things for me?" the man asks. 

You sigh. You really hope he's not going to ask you to suck his dick while his kid's running errands for him. 

"Like what?"

"Could you get some sugar from the break room? You remember where the break room is, right?"

"Dad," he starts with a weary sound to his voice. "Dad, please tell me you're not going to make a cake here at work."

His father continues on as if he hadn't spoken. "The whole box of packets should do fine. If you could also bring me some vegetable oil?"

"Where are you even going to bake a cake?! We're on a floor of offices!"

"Hmm. Perhaps some eggs?"

"Dad," he groans, clearly exasperated.

"Yes?"

"...Augh! Fine. Just...don't make me eat any, okay?" His rolls his eyes and huffs out into the hall, leaving you to stare blankly at the odd exchange. You really feel as thought you've missed something, and are starting to wonder if this whole thing isn't code for some bizarre kink you haven't heard of.

You also really, really hope he isn't planning on having his kid join in on whatever this is. You could not handle any more incest today. You really just could not.

"Have a seat," he says to you. It should have sounded casual, but there was a slight tone, a slight hint, that made it sound like saying no was not an option.

You shrug and slump into one of the guest chairs. It is not as comfortable as the one in the other office, and your body pains you with the effort to sit still in the firm seat. 

The man pulls out a pipe and lights it, despite the several "no smoking" signs you saw around. 

"Isn't that not allowed?" you ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "Does it bother you?"

You pause for a moment, wetting your lips to mask your grimace at the sudden pain that shoots up your spine. "The smoking or the rule-breaking? 'Cause I gotta tell you, man. If you're worried about me being upset about rule-breaking, you're talking to the wrong fucking kid."

He stills, eyes drifting over your form, and you have the distinct feeling that you have just majorly fucked up. 

You glance toward the door. The kid still isn't back. For just a moment, you wonder if the man sent him to go fetch the cops. You wonder if he would turn in his coworker like that. You wonder how close they are; if this is even a consult at all.

"Son, let me tell you something," he says around his pipe. "I have seen a lot of nephews go into Jim's office. I have never said anything because some people understandably have large families. However, when I see these boys coming out of his office limping and wincing, and, sometimes, yelling obscenities at his closed door, a man begins to wonder things.”

You try very hard to resist the urge to squirm in your seat, but those brown eyes pin you down. You feel like a small child being lectured by a parent for stealing cookies. To say you don’t like the feeling is an understatement.

“What’s your point?”

He leans forward and rests his chin on his hands. The motion makes him look younger. It also puts him closer to you. 

“When you came in, I investigated. I saw exactly what I did not want to ever see of a boy near my son’s age.”

“So sorry you had to see my ass so freshly pounded.” The words come automatically. Only after they leave do you stop to think over his words.

A realization comes to you, sluggishly crawling into your mind. “So...you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me while your kid is running errands.”

The man flinches around his eyes, and somehow, this pleases you. Your words upset him. 

“Putting my hands on one so young is the exact opposite of what I want to do.” He puffs on his pipe, sitting back in his chair.

“Yeah, because that totally stops every man desperate to get their nuts licked,” you scoff. “Let me tell you how long it takes men to get over that guilt: me saying I’m 18, and getting on my knees. Sometimes they shuffle away like an embarrassed little turtle; wanting to turn tail and run the fuck out of the alley, but worried about hurting my feelings or whatever. So they drag their clothes back on, and look back over their shoulders every few feet like ‘oh my god he’s not 18. But he said he was. That makes it okay, right? But oh man, little Johnny next door is his age. It’s like I just fucked my neighbor’s kid. Poor Mrs. Smith. I’ll never be able to look her in the eyes again.’ Or you know what’s worse? Having them look at you like you just kicked their goddamned puppy. All ‘he’s just a poor dirty little brat. What a shame he has to live like this. Someone should do something about this scum on our streets.’”

You pause in your tirade, eyes meeting his for just a moment before they drift off toward his books. You stare unseeing at them as you continue. “It’s not like.... I mean, when I moved out here, whoring myself out to obese middle-aged men was totally what I imagined doing to make a fucking living. You know? It’s just where I fucking want my life to go. I cannot imagine doing anything else with my life other than sleeping behind a fucking dumpster, and sucking wrinkly shlong in the morning.”

You flop back against the chair, expression twisting into something uncomfortable. It ruins your petulant facade. 

He was quiet for a long time, merely sitting there and puffing on his pipe. He seemed to be considering all that you had said. You half wish you could be inside of that head of his just for five minutes to see what he was thinking about. Is he going to yell? Kick you out of his office? You don’t know. You can’t read his face. You half just want to leave and never look at this building again.

You ache in more places than you can name, and a few you’re pretty sure don’t even exist. Exhaustion is setting in. You rub at your temples, and feel your pulse there, beating hard and steady under your skin. You just want to go home and sleep the day away, but you have no real home to go to. Your old alley was as close as you could get, but you can’t return there any longer.

“You have said a lot that is making me consider a few things,” he says finally.

His voice is sudden in the quiet room. Not even a clock ticking can be heard. It breaks you out of your reverie like a shock of cold water to your tired face.

You flinch. “Is that right?”

He nods. “It is. Tell me...how old are you? And please, no lies. I am not here to judge.”

Your arms cross over your chest. You debate doing just what he warned against just for the sake of opposing him, but you figure telling him the blatant truth is more ironic. “I’ll be fifteen in December.”

“Ah. John just turned 14 two months ago.” 

“Your kid?”

“Yes.” 

You look the guy over. He’s a white man with a tan that says he works outside a lot, though he doesn’t have the muscles for it. You’re willing to bet that he gardens. He seems like the type to garden. His eyes are a deep warm brown, and what you can see of his hair is the same. 

John, as you’re learning the kid is called, has a olive complexion and blue eyes. He seemed to be of Asian descent, from what you could remember. You open your mouth to ask the question on your mind, but the man in front of you beats you to it.

“He’s adopted, yes. My wife and I...could not conceive a child of our own.” A soft smile touches his lips, and a twinge of jealousy rushes through you. “We decided to adopt. We immediately fell in love with his smile.”

“She died shortly after we brought him into the home,” he says, causing a wave of guilt to wash away the jealousy. “He had just turned two. It saddens me that he doesn’t remember her.”

You don’t really know what to say, so you keep your mouth shut. For once. 

“I know he gets lonely. I host foster children every now and then for both of our sakes. It is nice to have younger ones sometimes. To remember what it was like. And when they’re older, it is nice for John to have the company.” He sighs, then, and fiddles with a nearby pen. He then meets your gaze behind your shades. 

“We have a spare room,” he says. His words carry a weight that you recognize right away. 

Your mouth poises to say no. You try to form the word. Your lips move, but no sound comes out. 

You let them close, then try again to no avail.

“It is a warm bed inside a home. Three square meals. A room to call your own.” He searches the face that you have hidden behind your shades. “It is, ultimately, your decision whether or not you come, but I would really like it if you did.”

You want to tell him “go to hell.” You want to say “I’m not a charity case.” You want to shove away from the desk, and walk the fuck out.

You want to. You tell your body to say the words--to make the motions. Yet, it still sits there stubbornly, your face still set in an expression of mild shock. You cannot for the life of you think about why this is a bad idea. It certainly could not be any worse that what you’re already experiencing.

...Could it? 

You take a moment to imagine it. Every day, going to sleep in a comfortable sheet set instead of an old sweatshirt. An actual mattress instead of pavement or a cardboard box. You imagine not having to worry about food money, or where you will hide your stash. You imagine not staying up until the point of deprivation just waiting for some bum to come by and try to take your shit in the middle of the night. You imagine not having to worry about cops or reckless strangers. Never having to remember which stores you bought condoms from. Not cycling through pharmacies so they don’t report you. 

You imagine never taking cash for sex again. 

A start at a new life. An opportunity at actually being something. Maybe a new brother who’d actually treat you like a brother instead of a....

You blink up at the man in front of you. Your face steels in determination, only for it to crack at the last moment. 

You can’t. You’d be accepting a stranger’s offer. You’d be allowing yourself to be taken in like some kind of stray. And for what? He wouldn’t be gaining anything from it.

“What do you want in return?”

His brows pinch in a display of confusion. “In return?”

“Yeah. In return. You can’t want nothing.”

You watch him think it over for a moment. “What would you be comfortable with?”

You feel your brow arch over one of your lenses. “’What would I be comfortable with,’” you repeat flatly. “You are asking a hooker what he would be comfortable with.”

His face goes blank, unreadable. He blinks once, slowly, before a look of understanding crosses his features. 

He sighs, then. “Just...be a friend to John. Please? That is all I ask.”

You shrug. You don’t see where it would be difficult to occasionally talk to the guy.

“Should I take that as an agreement?”

You hesitate for a moment, eyes going to the door. “My stuff’s still in the alley,” you state blandly, choking down the fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“We can get your belongings before we leave.”

You shrug again, sniffing once. You’re rather proud of your calm outward demeanor. “Okay, cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being over 5k orz 
> 
> Enjoy! And happy St. Paddy's, everyone! :DDD


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seriously overwhelmed at how much people are liking this fic. Thank you all! I love reading your responses! :3
> 
> I'm going to try to update at least every Monday, but Camp NaNo starts next month. I'm not sure how faithful I'll be able to stay to this schedule, but let's hope for the best, yeah? ^^
> 
> Oh, and I'm from the USA, where this story takes place. I just realized that readers from other countries might not know what a Social Security card is. It's basically a card with a long number that you register for. It kind-of tells the government who you are. It's necessary for things like school, work, dealing with the bank, etc.

John and his father live in a nice suburban neighborhood. The blocks are full of nice green lawns, picket fences, and children’s playthings. 

It looks like something out of a storybook, and you’re unsure whether to laugh or cry at the sight of it all.

Your new bedroom is larger than the alleys you are used to. There is a twin-sized bed to the right covered in clean white sheets and a blue quilt. To the left is a desk. There is also a bookshelf and two small dressers. One has a vanity mirror on top. The other, a TV.

It is a little strange. A little awkward to set your backpack on the crisp clean edges of the made-up guest bed. A little odd to open the empty drawers of the dresser, the scent of lavender potpourri hitting you square in the face. Weirder yet, to see your own reflection, and wonder how nobody bothered to call the police.

Dried blood fills a scratch on your cheek. You don’t remember getting the injury, but there it stands all the same. Your complexion is pale; not just fair, but pale. Too white. Missing color. The yellow of your hair gives it an odd cast. Strands of it hang limply over your forehead. You had tried to wash it when you could, but getting it clean in gas station bathrooms was not the easiest thing in the world. 

You lift up your shades, dropping them as soon as you catch a glimpse of the dark circles under your eyes. Combined with the slight sunken appearance of your face, and the dirt on your cheeks (though you tried your best to wash off the alley grit every morning, it never really came clean), you looked as though you aged ten years in the past few months.

You crave a shower. You wonder how inappropriate it would be to ask for one. 

Your eyes travel the room, taking in the pale blue gauze-y curtains, the sandy-colored carpet, and the white walls. You truthfully aren’t sure what the fuck a guest room is supposed to look like, but it kind of amazes you how very...kitsch everything is. The room looks like it walked right out of a “this is what homes look like” magazine.

A sigh puffs your bangs up. You have no idea what the fuck you’ve just gotten yourself into. 

“Uh...hey, um....”

A voice brings your attention to the doorway.

“’Sup?”

Blue eyes widen just a bit, an awkward smile flashing an overbite that should have been dealt with years ago. “Um, well, I guess...I just thought I’d come introduce myself? Since we’re kinda going to be brothers or something?”

He laughs, then. An abrupt sound that shoves its way out into the space between the two of you. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, has the grace to look embarrassed. John Egbert is way to fucking adorable for his own good.

In the way that babies are adorable, you quickly amend to yourself, though nothing was said aloud.

You realize, belatedly, that this is the part in the conversation where you’re supposed to respond, and you berate yourself for not realizing sooner that he was waiting on your response. 

“Your name is John. You live here. Think that’s intro enough, bro.” You shrug. “Unless you want to tell me the names of the teddy bears you sleep with, and the kind of chicks you like to be balls-deep in.”

He opens his mouth to say something--either a legitimate answer, or some form of “fuck you”--but his teeth clack together as his jaw slams shut at your last words. You can see the whites of his eyes around his irises as his baby blues get bigger around. 

His lips part several times, his cheeks steadily growing darker. He looks not unlike a fish out of water, and you find yourself snorting at the mental imagery: a scaled and finned John flopping around on the deck of a boat. You are the master fisherman. It is you.

“Um. I don’t think.... I mean...! Hey, I only sleep with one stuffed bunny, and her name is Liv Tyler!” His tone is utterly indignant, and it only amuses you further.

“Man, you are one offended flounder.”

“...Flounder? You’re comparing me to a fish? Dude, that doesn’t even make any sense!”

You lift a shoulder, then let it drop. The conversation stalls.

He shifts foot-to-foot for a few moments before moving over to the nearly-empty bookshelf. It’s white, like most of the furniture in the room, and stands taller than he does by at least a foot. You watch him lift a candle to his face, then wrinkle his nose. His face twists into the same expression yours had when you did the same thing just moments before.

“Ugh. Why does he always buy this junk? It’s like...so girly. Your whole room smells like....” He trails off, mind searching for an apt metaphor.

“Somebody puked up flowers, and pissed perfume all over everything? Like a middle aged woman marking her territory or something? Lifting a leg up under that pencil skirt and letting floral squirts out on every vertical surface? Yeah, I’m aware.”

His face twists further, expression finally failing when a bout of honest-to-god giggles bursts from his lips. “Fucking gross, man!”

“Whoa there. Wouldn’t daddy frown upon his little boy using such foul language?” Your own lips quirk into a smirk.

“Dude, shut up!”

It feels like hours before his laughter finally subsides.

You pull your comb from your bag in the meantime, and attempt to fix the complete mess that is your hair. You really don’t succeed at doing anything other than making more of a mess.

You can feel his gaze on you. Your peripheral vision confirms his staring. You really don’t know what this kid wants from you. 

“So uh.” He shuffles a few steps towards you, his hands shoved into his pockets. Jesus. What the fuck are you even doing talking to him? You feel like you’re going to corrupt the poor bastard just by sharing his air. “You know I’m John. Do you have a name, or should I just call you ‘Dude?’”

He grins at you, flashing those pearly white teeth. 

“I dunno. I kinda like ‘Dude,’” you inform him, folding your arms over your chest with a small smile of your own.

John raises a dark eyebrow before laughing it off. “Nope! Can’t call you ‘dude’ forever!”

“Why the fuck not?” you counter.

“Because then I won’t be able to call anyone else ‘dude’ without thinking of you! That’s why!”

“...Hey Egbert? Sense? That made none.”

He gives you a shove intended to be playful, you think, rocking your form slightly where you stand. You aren’t really prepared for the motion, and have to catch yourself from gasping as muscles in still-sensitive places clench. 

Something must be showing on your face, because his own suddenly softens into something like mild befuddlement. 

“Uh...you okay, dude?”

You wave away the hand that reaches out to steady you. “My delicate frame can’t stand your brutish strength. You gotta treat me like a dainty flower.”

“Like a...pansy?” He cocks a brow.

“Give me more credit. I’m more like a rose. All for looks, not for touch, and expensive as hell.” You almost snort at how very inaccurate those words have proven to be.

He shakes his head, grinning. “You are seriously the biggest dork in the world.”

“Man, what? I think you mean ‘coolest dude in the world.’”

He just stares at you for a moment before the giggles take him again. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, dude.”

A lot of emphasis is put on that final word, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Dave,” you correct, and he stalls his laughter to blink at you.

“Dave, huh?”

“Dave,” you agree.

“...Gotta last name?”

“Nope. Just Dave. Like fucking Cher or Madonna. A one-name wonder.”

He doesn’t even hesitate before laughing again. You can still hear him even as you exit your borrowed bedroom after being pointed in the direction of the nearest hot shower.

You try to remember the last time you were this clean, but give up pretty quickly. It’s been too long, you decide. That’s all there is to say. 

Your hair hangs longer than you like it-- almost to your shoulders, now. You bet you could pull it back into pigtails. You wonder where the fuck that thought comes from.

With cleanliness comes a complexion that still looks too harsh. You really look unhealthy. You had always been on the thin side, but not eating regularly has not helped that any. Bruises mark the flesh around your hips. You try not to look at those for too long. The sight of those evenly-spaced spots brings up memories of evenly-spaced fingers sinking into your skin.

Your eyes fall to the clothes he leant you. He never asked for them back. The practical side of your mind says that they’re nice clothes, and could afford you good opportunities should you ever acquire a job interview. You don’t listen to that side very much. The side you’re leaning toward is the one telling you to burn them. 

For now, you gather them into your arms. You secure the towel firmly around your hips, and peek out to see if the brunet is around.

“Yo, Egbert?”

A messy mop of hair pokes out of his doorway. “Yeah?”

You pause before asking the question just on the tip of your tongue. You don’t like asking for favors. You really don’t. Things that you need, you can get yourself. Eventually. 

Your shaded eyes fall to the bundle in your hands again, and your nerves steel.

You don’t like it, but it is necessary this time. Besides, you tell yourself. You’ll pay him back for it. You will. You simply cannot stand the thought of sitting in the clean room with this clean body in those dirty clothes, and that is what settles it in your mind.

“...You got some clothes I can borrow?” You shrug a little, trying to play off how uncharacteristically nervous you are. You have no idea why you’re so anxious. “Just until I get some new shit,” you promise, unsure why you’re justifying the request.

You dump the clothes outside your door once he nods, and pull the towel up further when his eyes shift to your exposed hips. 

“I don’t think they’re going to fit you, but you can try.” 

He opens a drawer, and shoves a few pairs of jeans into your arms. “Uh...you have underwear, right?”

You don’t. You threw away your last pair of ratty boxers weeks ago. You nod anyway. 

His jeans are a little too big on you. They hang off your hips, threatening to drop down right over your ass. You need a belt if these are going to work. Luckily, he provides you with one. 

“Man, you’re lucky I don’t wear super baggy pants, dude. They’d be down around your ankles right now,” he says as he passes the woven brown leather to you with a small chuckle. 

You shoot him a trademark Strider look as you fasten the thing. “Maybe I like my ass hanging out. I mean, why wouldn’t I want to show off this cute little booty, huh?”

You turn around, giving said amazing piece of flesh a small smack. John looks downright embarrassed. Success.

“Dude...,” he shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. 

His response draws a smirk from you. You guess that that was a little too much for the poor boy. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend your schoolboy sensibilities.”

You watch his eyes narrow behind his square frames. “Schoolboy...sensibilities,” he repeats slowly.

You nod. “Yeah, man. I know you’re all innocent in the ways of the world and shit. Didn’t mean to corrupt your poor little mind or anything. No, wait. That’s a lie. I am totally loving that I’m corrupting you a little bit.”

“Dave, you are not corrupting me.”

“Don’t ruin it. You’re ruining my fun, Egbert.”

“You are not corrupting me, Dave. I really don’t know where you’re even getting that idea.”

“Dude, you totally fucking blushed when I turned around. You are so innocent that it actually hurts. Does your daddy block all the fun channels? Oh man, do you have that cyber nanny shit? I bet you do. Holy fuck.”

To his credit, all John does during this tirade is cross his arms over his chest and glare at you. “You done now?”

There is a dusting of pink over his cheeks, which makes you wonder if it’s from being accused, or that you totally nailed his father’s protectiveness. 

“I could keep going.”

He stays quiet for just a moment. “He doesn’t block the channels anymore,” he mumbles, finally, bringing an almost shit-eating grin to your lips. 

“Holy shit. How old were you when he stopped?”

“That’s not important!”

“Ten? Eleven? Twelve?” you guess. “Thirteen?”

“Bluh, bluh. Just shut up! Okay? God, that doesn’t even matter! Why does that even matter?”

“So you were thirteen, then? Damn, dude. How old were you when he let you leave the yard by yourself? Fourteen?”

“I am fourteen.”

“Wow, way to miss the point. Man, that thing flew over your head so high, the joke was taking pictures of you as it passed. John Egbert: tourist attraction. Look out below, folks! This joke is experiencing turbulence due to John’s amazingly messy hair.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I know.”

A moment passes before a small smile ruins his frown. “The biggest dick.”

“It is me,” you agree.

“Biggest, smelliest bulge ever.”

“Hey, man, I just showered.”

He grins. “Wanna look through my shirts?”

You shrug. “Yeah, okay.”

You find a few things that are sort-of acceptable, and spend the rest of the evening sprawled out on John’s floor as some stupid movie plays in the background. It is horrible, and you do not hesitate to let him know. He punches you in the arm. You shove popcorn down his shirt. He upends the bowl over your head. The two of you scramble to clean the mess up when his father’s footsteps are heard on the staircase.

You sleep in the next day. You know this because you wake to John shaking your shoulders and yelling about if being after ten in the morning and, my God, Dave, the sun has been up for HOURS, when the fuck are you planning on getting up? John’s definition of sleeping in is very different from yours.

After much grumbling and complaining, you manage to sit up. There is a very brief moment when you panic as you open your eyes. You wonder, just for a moment, if you went home with someone this time. You wonder, just for a moment, what the fuck happened the night before. Were the cops on their way? 

You force yourself to take deep breaths as your gaze lands on John’s unironic Ghostbusters sheets, complete with whining buck-toothed boy standing next to the bed. 

Right. You did go home with somebody, but it wasn’t for payment.

Your body protests when you try to stand. A small hiss of pain escapes you as you stagger to your legs. You’re trying to blame it on the weird position you fell asleep in, and not on the previous day’s events. 

His eyes follow your movements, a bit of concern touching them. “Um...are you hungry? I could maybe make us something?”

“Only if you don a frilly pink apron,” you shoot back to chase away that look in his eyes. Dave Strider needs pity from no-one.

He wrinkles his nose. Success. “Where would somebody even get one of those?”

You shrug. “Sex shop?”

He opens his mouth to comment, then appears to think better of it. “I don’t really want to know how you know that, do I?”

“I think you know how I know that.”

“I think I can fry eggs,” he says abruptly, turning toward the door. 

“You think?”

“I think.”

You discover fifteen minutes later that John cannot fry eggs. In fact, the mess he made in the pan was so far from resembling eggs, you think he may have discovered a new periodic element. 

The two of you settle for munching on cereal straight from the box. This devolves very rapidly into a battle to see who can fit the most Corn Flakes into their mouth and still form words. You win. 

...Until John realizes that your sides are ticklish. You suspect that his father will be finding bits of cereal embedded in the couch fibers for months. 

Hours later find you writing in a notebook you find in one of the desk drawers in the bedroom you’re borrowing. It has been a very long time since you tried to write lyrics down. So long, it’s been, that you wonder if you’ve still got it. 

You stretch out on your belly across the quilt, pen in one hand, and notebook in the other.

The page remains blank for an hour. The empty lines mock you, openly questioning your creativity every time your pen moves to touch the paper.

This is how John finds you around four. 

“Dad says he’ll take us to the store to get you some clothes. You coming?”

You practically jump at the chance to toss aside the book.

As you belt yourself into the backseat of his father’s spacious vehicle, you mention that the nearest thrift shop should be fine. His father nods, and you figure that that is where he’s heading when he pulls out of the driveway. You are not familiar with this area yet. You have no idea what lies outside of the Egberts’ large neighborhood. As such, you almost balk when he pulls into the parking lot of a department store, telling John that his jeans have gotten too short, and he really needs better-fitting ones.

You do balk when you see the price tags on the pants in this store. Forlornly, you count the money you have with you. It would be enough to buy a few outfits, but then it would be gone. 

You almost cry when you get to the register and realize that you don’t have enough to cover what you picked out. A few frustrated tears do leave you when Mr. Egbert picks up the full tab, refusing the money you offer him.

You again want to thank Bro for the shades. No-one has to know about your watery eyes but you. 

* * *

You spend the next couple of days adjusting to life in the Egbert house. It is especially awkward when his father is home, you decide. John himself is not too bad, but his father knows what you used to do. You had not thought about how that would affect things. 

You see him looking at you sometimes. You see that far-away look in his gaze when you catch his eyes. His eyebrows are always furrowed deep. You can only imagine what he’s thinking about. You sometimes wonder if he ever regrets his offer.

Sunday night finds you seated at a table with a large dinner laid out before you. His father had roasted a whole chicken for some goddamned reason. He scoops stuffing out of the cavity of the bird, and plops it into a bowl. This is followed by a dish of homemade mashed potatoes, a dish of gravy, fresh cooked green beans, and glazed baby carrots. A two-tiered chocolate cake completes the meal.

You laugh at the face John makes at the sight of the cake. 

“Baked goods won’t kill you, dude.”

“Shut up,” he whines, covering his face. “You’re embarrassing me, Dad,” he addresses the older man.

“I’m sure David will appreciate my efforts.”

You wince a little at the use of that name. You don’t know how many times you have told the man to just call you Dave. “Hell yeah. Feels like fucking Christmas in here.”

“Language,” his father scolds immediately.

“Sorry. Feels like the fucking holidays in here.”

He gives you a look, but you can see the small smile forming at the corners of his mouth. You put on your best innocent face, and he has to turn to hide his grin. John makes no effort to do so. 

“Dude!”

“What? Gotta be culturally sensitive, John. Not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know. I just thank your father for reminding me of that important fact.”

He kicks your foot under the table. 

You send him a smirk.

After dinner, the three of you sit in the living room. His father reads a paper, while John flips through the channels. 

Brown eyes meet yours over the business section. “David?”

You manage not to flinch this time. “Yeah?”

“Do you have your birth certificate and social security card? A valid ID?”

You blink slowly behind your shades. You’re not sure where he’s going with this, but you don’t really care for the tone in his voice. “I’m a legal citizen, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

You watch him frown. He cocks his head to the right, and puffs on his pipe before responding. “No, son, that is not what I’m getting at. Do you have those documents with you?”

“Nope.” You’d had your birth certificate and ID on you when your first backpack was stolen. Those things are missing now. You were never able to find your social security card before you left, but you think you must have a number since you have an ID.

“We’ll need to acquire those things for you,” he says simply. “Especially your birth certificate.”

You fall quiet, unsure of what to say. You glance over at John, who only gives you a small shrug.

“Why?” you finally ask.

“We’ll need it if we’re going to enroll you in school,” he states as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluh bluh this is so late. I'm sorry for being terrible. :/ 
> 
> On the plus side, this ended up being almost 7k? 
> 
> ...In other news, I (or nobody in existence, as far as I know) don't own Monsters and Toast. 
> 
> Also, surprise guest next chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!

You had not thought that getting used to life in a new environment would be this difficult. After all, it was only a two-story house in a suburb filled with two males just like yourself. But, you think, that might be the problem right there.

The Egberts are not like you. Not even when you were living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment with your brother in the middle of fucking Texas. 

For starters, though Bro had his own weird rules about shit, they didn’t compare to John’s dad’s in any way. Things like not keeping food in the fridge due to it already being used to contain shitty swords and various other weaponry (most not of your own culture, and some you couldn’t even name) just weren’t comparable to Mr. Egberts “schedules.” 

Most mornings find you waking to John bursting through your door. He exudes cheer even as you groan and strain to find the effort just to open your eyes. He drags you out of bed and, clad in PJs, down to the breakfast table where the two of you find whatever food you can scrounge up that doesn't require the use of a stove. 

The mornings that John isn't throwing your door open and screaming your name loud enough for all of Australia to hear, he's waking you up by nearly stepping on you. You end up falling asleep in his room more often than you'd like to admit. 

You both have a bedtime. It had seemed ludicrously early until you had experienced Early Morning John for the first time. You doubt that you will ever understand how that boy can literally wake with the sun, and enjoy it. 

You remember not too long ago you were going to bed as the sun was waking.

Mr. Egbert has rules about mealtimes. He has rules about being dressed by a certain time. He has rules about TV time, time for John to practice the piano (something which had come as a huge shock to you; you had sort-of come to the conclusion that he was only interested in gaming and shitty movies). He has rules about a lot of things.

“A set schedule is important for a growing body,” he says in that politely authoritative tone.

It is the same tone that chides you for using inappropriate language, and John for playing overly violent video games. Though, if he ever asked you for your opinion, you’d tell him that the games are less of an influence on his personality than the movies are. He doesn’t ask. You don’t offer. It would probably break the poor littlest Egbert’s heart.

Next to Bro's rules of "don't come into the apartment if a sock's on the door," and "if you hear screaming in the living room, put your headphones on," and, your personal favorite "just don't touch my fucking shit, okay?", John's dad's rules are a lot like learning the customs of a foreign nation. One that seemingly exists on another planet and in an entirely different galaxy altogether.

You're still surprised to see napkins on the dining room table. You're still surprised that you're even able to eat at a table. Not bent over a counter, huddled over your lap on a futon, or munching as you're running from security guards.

Wednesday morning, you wake to the sun just barely peeking through the curtains. It takes you more than a moment to remember where you are, but the sound of soft snoring coming from the bed above you helps. The memory comes eventually: you're in John's room. He had dragged you in to play some racing game, and you had conked out in the middle of the floor somewhere around the fourth lap. There's a blanket thrown over you. You guess John did that. You don't know who else would have. His father tends to leave you two alone, so long as you're upstairs before ten. 

You yawn and stretch. You'd like to go back to sleep, but something is keeping your eyes open. Some movement, or thought, or memory. You can't seem to will them shut. The need to sleep has left your body.

A glance up at John's alarm clock proves that your first thought is right: it's early as fuck. It is not quite five a. m. yet. 

You bury your face into the blanket with a groan. You do not want to be up this early. Not even John gets up this early. Not even the sun gets up this early. The giant yellow star is only now stirring from its slumber, casting insignificant little beams of light into John’s window.

You roll over, eyes skimming over his room. What had woken you, anyway, you wonder. It wasn't a noise. You've grown used to John's sounds as he sleeps, and the traffic is never loud enough to hear through the windows of the upstairs bedrooms. There are no sounds coming from downstairs, and the two of you are definitely alone in this room.

What the hell was it?

You rub at your temples, reaching for the shades you had discarded when the lights had gone out last night. 

They aren't where you left them. 

You stand, panicked for just a moment. They're as much a part of you as your hair. You feel naked without them.

You pat around on the floor, even shaking the blanket out. Gone.

You curse softly. "What the fuck?"

A small sigh leaves your form. You toss the blanket down and head for the bathroom. They probably ended up under the bed, you decide. In any case, you're not going to root around under there while John is trying to sleep. You may be an asshole, but you're a polite asshole who knows social bounds. You did not wake your bro at the crack of dawn because you're missing an accessory. It could damn well wait.

You wash your hands after finishing up, amused at how easily you've started referring to John with such terms. You were sure you were going to hate the whiny douchenozzle when you first met him, but John...is really not that bad of a guy. He can use with some growing up, you think. But he's okay people to talk to.

A noise from downstairs reaches your ears as you exit the small room. You arch a brow. You hadn't heard anything down there earlier. 

Your eyes seach for a weapon, but the only thing nearby is an umbrella. You stare at the thing for a long moment before finally picking it up. Was an umbrella even an acceptable weapon, you wonder? Could it actually do any damage? 

You give it a few test swings. You suppose you could probably use it like a lance, if you had to. Run somebody through with the tip. It'd bruise at least. 

You sigh. This is stupid, you think to yourself. Really stupid.

Water runs down in the kitchen. You creep toward the stairs, armed with your new rainbow-striped fabric lance.

A familiar hat greets you as you peek over the rail, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Of course it is his father. Who the fuck else would it be? It certainly wouldn't be a robber pouring himself a glass of water at five in the morning. 

You set the umbrella in a corner, and shuffle down to the living room. You feel like an idiot. 

"Oh!" His father turns just as you come around the end of the staircase. "Good morning, David."

"'Morning," you greet with a raised hand.

He pulls out a chair from the table, and seats himself in front of a steaming cup of coffee and a newspaper. It does not surprise you that his breakfast: a steady diet of caffeine and news. Your bro was the same way, though he sometimes substituted caffeine with liquor, and always substituted soda for the coffee. Still, the thought was the same. 

"I am surprised to see you up this early," he comments over the paper. 

You shrug as you take a seat across from him. "That makes two of us." A yawn slips out before you can stop it. You pretend you don't see the way he smiles at the sight of it.

"Why don't you go back to bed? John won't be waking for another couple of hours."

You shrug again. You don't really want to tell him that you can't go back to sleep. That would garner a "and why is that?", and you really don't have an answer to that question. "I'm awake," you state instead.

He nods. "Are you hungry?"

"Nah. I'll wait for lazybones up there." You almost facepalm. You have never in your life said "lazybones" seriously. You have definitely been talking to John too often. 

You catch him smiling again. 

"I am glad to see that the two of you are getting along. It makes me happy that he has someone to talk to."

"I can't be the only person he talks to," you say skeptically. You know the kid is a bit of a dork (okay, he's a huge goofy moron), but he's not socially inept. He was the one who sought you out originally. He's not shy. He's a little awkward, but not painfully so. You think that, given time to come out of his shell, he might even have the potential to be a little popular.

He is quiet for a moment. "There are a few that he talks to in school, but he is a quiet boy. He doesn't bring friends home, nor does he go out of his way to visit friends. It is good that he has somebody here."

You think that over for a while. You really have to wonder how much of what Daddy Egbert says is on John, and how much of it is on him. Going by the conversation you had just a few days ago with the boy, you think that maybe his father worries too much about him. Maybe those worries passed on, and John himself is afraid of just going out there and getting involved. 

You blow out a puff of air to get your bangs out of your face. Either way, it's really not your problem. 

But maybe...maybe you could drag him out today. See the neighborhood. Go to a movie in town. 

You meet his gaze, shifting a little in your seat. "Hey, where's the nearest bus stop? You know. If we wanted to get out and do something."

His expression brightens a little. "It's on Oak Street."

You thank him, and excuse yourself. If you stay with him any longer, you might just agree to arranging the poor boy's prom date and wedding. 

"Dave?" a sleepy voice greets you as you enter his room. 

He's awake, now, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He grabs his glasses from his end table, and blinks at you. "Were you talking to dad?"

"Yup." You flop on the bed next to him. "Get dressed," you tell him, patting his leg. "After breakfast, we're going on a date."

He smacks your arm, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm serious. Your daddy begged me to take his only son out into town and have my wicked way with him. 'Please help me, Dave,' he said. 'John is so sweet and virginal. I'm worried he'll never lose his innocence. But you gotta wine and dine him first. My baby's no slut.'"

John's nose wrinkles. "Dude, shut up." He slaps something plastic into your chest. You look down to see your shades fall into your lap. 

"Where the fuck were they?" 

"End table." He pulls his shirt over his head as he stands, and you avert your eyes accordingly. Staring at your half-naked bro is not proper social conduct. No matter how nicely sculpted his back may be.

He glances back over his shoulder, catching your attention. "Dave, are we really going out?"

Something about the way he's standing holds your gaze. Maybe it's the way his eyes are so intent on your face. Or maybe it's the way he still hasn't fucking put a shirt on. 

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance and getting it. "Guess so. Kinda want to see what the hell's around here. Other than fucking trees and white houses. Why the hell do all of these houses look the same? Feels like goddamn Stepford country right here, man."

"Dave, all the houses are not the same."

You can practically feel him rolling his eyes at you. "And it's not just trees and houses," he adds.

"And rain."

He pauses for a moment before pulling a striped polo over his head. "Okay, I'll give you that one. It kinda rains a lot here."

"It rains all the fucking time."

"No it doesn't," he scoffs. "Where did you want to go?"

You shrug again. "You like movies, right? There's gotta be a theater here. Even in Bumblefuck, Washington, there's gotta be a theater."

"Oh my God, you're really taking me out on a date!" A fit of giggles takes him over as he slides into a pair of jeans. You pointedly don't watch the way his barely-clad ass wriggles into the denim. "Oh man, are we going to dinner, too? Can we go to Olive Garden?"

"Yeah, man, sure. We'll tell them it's your birthday, and get a free cake." 

You feel very satisfied as his color visibly takes on a sickly tone. 

"That was low, dude."

"Maybe. But John, seriously. If you wanted to play house, you shoulda said something. I'll get my best dress, and we'll go to a fucking candlelight fake Italian dinner courtesy of Olive Garden."

His eyes narrow, though it looks as though he's holding back another laugh. "You don't own a dress," he challenges.

"Wanna bet?"

He pauses, his mouth opening twice before finally closing. He shakes his head. "No, because knowing you, you probably have some fru-fru in there for 'ironic' reasons. Right?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Probably."

"Dave, do you own a dress?"

"Yes."

"Goddammit. Get some fucking pants on, you dork."

You go get some pants on. A shirt, too. In fact, you've gone and gotten yourself a whole goddamn outfit right out of your closet. Imagine that.

You meet him downstairs, wallet firmly in your back pocket. 

"Daddy gone?"

"You need to stop calling him that when he's not around. You might actually slip up and call him that to his face."

"He'd probably hug me and cry."

He snorts. "He might."

"He totally would. All soaking my shirt and shit with his manly aftershave tears."

You watch him pull a box of Lucky Charms from a cabinet. He stares at you for a moment before shrugging. "I guess he might. "

He offers you a handful after taking one of his own. You oblige him. 

"So he says the nearest stop is on Oak."

John shrugs. "If he says so."

You pause, glancing over at the brunet. You're pondering something over in your wily ironic mind. You're willing to bet on this something, but you'd like to find out for sure.

"John. You've never taken the city bus, have you?"

"What? Of course I have!"

His response is immediate, indignant. His words come fast, his face flushed. Bingo. 

"Aw, I _am_ taking your virginity. Popping that sweet suburb boy-cherry. Baby's first bus ride: Strider style." You have to hold back the grin that's eager to burst free. You don't even notice the slip-up until John calls you on it.

"Strider style? What the hell does that even mean?"

You freeze, body still, but mind working over time. You had really not meant to reveal your last name to John. You had needed to tell his father to get paperwork started for your documents, but somehow, telling John just seemed...terribly uncalled for. Like if he knew that, he'd know all the things you'd done. Knowing your last name would be like having a library card to all the books in the "Dave's past" genre.

"Like the dance. You know." You clap your hands, and slide your foot to the left. "Bam! Strider."

Either he doesn't notice the hesitation, or he just doesn't give a shit. He doesn't say anything. You only get an eyeroll and a head shake. Mild, for John.

"Do you really want to go out this early? You're usually still hiding under the covers and whining about the sun right now."

You glance up at the clock, wincing at the bold seven a. m. You sigh a little. "John, we have played all of your games, and watched all the movies I am willing to be in the same room as while sober and unbound. We need to go somewhere."

He huffs a little. "You're an ass. My movies are not that bad. It's not my fault you have bad taste."

"Bad taste? Let me tell you about bad taste, John. Bad taste is wearing a yellow-and-orange striped polo with those pants. Or at all, really. One does not simply wear that out in public."

"Are you seriously giving me fashion advice? The guy that wear sunglasses indoors? At night? And skinny jeans?"

"Polo. Those pants. You aren't even being ironic about it. It's just sad."

"You wear sunglasses indoors," he stresses.

"Ghostbusters sheets," you shoot back.

"You write raps! While wearing sunglasses!" His tone sounds exasperated. You wonder how far you can push him. You wonder how far he’ll let you push before he snaps.

"Nic. Cage."

He sputters for a moment, his hand reaching for your shirt. At the last minute, however, he just throws both hands into the air. "I give up. I give up! You are fucking impossible."

You pause for a few moments, letting him stew for just the right amount of time. "...Ready for our date yet?"

He sighs, resigned. "Yeah, okay."

You offer him your arm. Ironically.

He gives you a not-so-gentle shove into the doorframe.

It turns out that John is not only completely inept at cooking, but also can’t navigate his way out of a paper bag. Or, in this case, a suburban neighborhood.

“Why don’t you ask somebody?”

“No, I know where we are. We don’t need to ask anyone.”

“So I’m your nagging wife now, am I?”

“What?” He looks your way, confusion clear on his face.

“We’re lost, and you won’t ask for directions. Typical man.” You cluck your tongue. 

The look he gives you half makes you wonder if you’ve just sprouted a tree out of your ear or something. He sighs softly and refocuses his attention on the road ahead of you. 

"Dave," he says softly.

"Yeah, dude?"

"Shut the fuck up."

You shrug.

You are still surprised at how large his neighborhood is. You swear it was not this big when you arrived. The streets all seem to blend together in one big indecipherable mess. The houses are unrecognizable from the ones directly next door, though John argues otherwise, and the nondescriptness of it all is making your head hurt.

"This feels like a bad horror movie."

John looks your way. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, any minute now, some dude with a machete is going to come around the corner of one of these fucking Stepford houses and run at us. All 'surprise, kiddies! Daddy's got a new toy!'"

"It’s okay,” he says calmly. “He'll go for you first. They always go for the blonds first."

"Nah, that only works when the blondes have tits. Does it look like I have tits?"

"I dunno. You could have tits. I've never seen you with your shirt off."

"Yeah, and there's a big sopping sideways taco under these pants."

"You saying you have a big pussy? Isn't that, like, something you don't want to be bragging about?"

"Man, no. Okay. Okay, look. See, if I have a big pussy, I could fit like, three dicks in there."

"Oh my God, Dave." 

You look over to see his reddening cheeks. His hands are trying their best to cover, but the glow of the blood rushing to his face is visible even through the makeshift barrier. "John, no. Seriously. Okay. Like...three dicks in there. Just...fucking destroying that thing. It happens."

"Oh my God!" he repeats, louder. A neighbor gathering his newspaper looks up at the commotion.

"All thrusting and rubbing up on each other. Just fucking stretching that shit out. But it's okay because here comes the fourth dick."

"What are you even talking about?! Oh my God!" He groans, his face completely buried in his palms. You have to grab his elbow to keep him from running into the back of a delivery truck. 

You allow yourself a small grin, waving down a woman watering her garden. "Hey! You know where Oak Street is?"

"Two blocks that way!" She points. You wave your hand in thanks.

"See how hard that was, hubby? So goddamn difficult to ask for directions. My God. Like fucking rocket science or something. Like holy shit. Don't want to use the wrong word. Might cause a damn explosion."

"I cannot fucking believe you."

"What?" You blink behind your shades. “You still worried about the fact that my pussy can take four dicks?”

He lets his hands fall enough to reveal his eyes. "Why are you so _weird_? Oh my God."

"Not weird. Ironic."

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, ‘cool guy.’ Whatever. Can we go now? I'm tired of walking in circles."

You drag him off in the direction the woman had pointed to, still holding onto his elbow. He tears his arm away with a small frown, but it only makes you snort in amusement. John, you decide, is really fun to fuck with. 

You frown at the bus stop when the two of you finally arrive. It's nothing but a sign shoved into the concrete of the sidewalk. There's no shelter, not even a bench. "Awesome. Man, look at all these luxury accommodations."

John stares up at it, then takes a peek up the road. It's a fairly busy street right on the edge of his neighborhood, though it still appears to be in the middle of nowhere. The other side of the street holds nothing but a thick border of trees.

"When is it coming?"

You shrug. "Shouldn't be too long."

He sighs, then, flopping onto the ground. "What time is it now?"

"Going on eight."

He sighs again, and slips his phone from his pocket. 

Time passes slowly and quietly. John doesn't seem to know what to say, and that makes two of you. You sneak glances at him every now and then, but he's either absorbed in whatever he's doing with his cell, or staring up the road.

The bus just does not arrive fast enough. 

"You know how far town is?"

John shakes his head. "The way Dad goes, it takes ten minutes, I guess."

"You guess?"

"It's not like I pay attention! He's the one driving." 

You let the matter drop, and pass the time by looking out the window, mind automatically categorizing what you drive by. Trees, gas stations, a shopping center all go by.

"Dude, do you know where the movie theater is?"

You look over when John doesn't answer, and smile a little when you see he's fallen asleep. You hold that smile right up to the moment that you shove him out of the seat with your hip.

"Whoops."

He flails as he lands, full of sputters and waving hands. "What the fuck, Dave? You ass!"

"Your fault for falling asleep on our date. You're a terrible boyfriend."

"I thought I was your husband?" he asks, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"I demoted you. The wedding was unsatisfying. And so was the sex."

His mouth drops open. There he sits in the middle of the bus aisle: jaw hanging, fingers gripping the seats on either side of him, glasses askew, and hair looking like a family of rats had slept in it through the night.

"You're a horrible wife!” he says finally, chin pointing toward the cieling in mock indignatioin.”You didn't even give me the divorce papers. What about my half of the property?" A small smile forms on his lips.

"Don't worry," you tell him as you offer him a hand up. "I mailed that shit."

"But we're still dating?"

"Hell yes. Can't get rid of my affection for that plush ass you got there."

He stares at you for a long moment as his fingers slip into your hand. 

You pull him up into the seat, ignoring the stares around you. You couldn’t care less what the other people on the bus are thinking. You’re just holding onto his gaze (and his hand, you notice belatedly), though you’re not sure if he can tell through your shades or not. Enough time passes to make it awkward, and it hits you suddenly that he really doesn’t know how to respond. Of course, you just can’t let that slide without acknowledging his lack of response.

“Yes, sweetheart? Pussycat holding onto that tongue? Sinking those claws in? Dangling from your mouth like an obscene mobile?”

He shoves you into the window, pulling his grip from yours. “You are such a goddamned prick!”

“Whoa there, John,” you warn. “It’s not ladylike to cuss so fucking much.”

“Says you!” 

You wait out the two minutes in silence that it takes for him to remember that one crucial thing. A smirk touches your lips when you finally hear a, “Hey, no, wait! I thought you were the girl!”

The two of you end up missing your stop. It takes twenty minutes to walk back from the next stop down. You thank whatever god is listening that Washington summers aren’t anything like the summers you became used to in Texas.

John doesn’t appear to be faring as well as you, however. While your breath is coming a little heavier than usual, and your heart is working a little harder to get blood moving, John just drops onto the curb as soon as you reach the shopping complex. His body slumps against a support column, his head coming a sliver away from bashing into the rough stone. He only barely pulls his feet out of the way as a car cuts the corner too short. 

Your shift to your other leg, trying not to let your antsyness show. You’re a little worried about him, though you won’t admit that out loud. “Want some water or something?”

“No, no. I’m good. I’m...I’m good.” His words are punctuated by hard swallows and loud gulps of air.

“Good to know, man. Not like you look like you’re dying or anything.”

“What?” He removes his glasses to rub sweat out of his eyes. “What do you mean? I’m fine!”

“John, you look like a fish out of water. And not metaphorically. I mean you actually look like you’re used to breathing underwater, and I just ripped you out of the ocean, and laid you out in this parking lot to fry up into a nice crispy John filet.”

He blinks a few times, looking like he’s trying hard to process your words. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get something to drink. I think there’s a grocery store in here.”

“Yeah, we’re sitting outside of it. See the carts?”

“Oh.”

You do not roll your eyes behind your shades. You do not. You do, however, offer him a hand up. He takes it, nearly pulling you over onto the sidewalk as he wobbles to his feet.

“This mean you want me to fall for you?” you tease him.

You see him rolling his eyes behind his thick frames. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“Nah, man. I’ve got a whole fucking arsenal. Just you wait.”

He walks a few paces ahead of you, and you do not let your eyes fall to check out how his ass looks in his jeans. You do not. 

“You coming?”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you feel your cheeks heat just slightly. You may have been lying about that last denial. His ass looks pretty damn good in that denim. 

“Just checking out the view,” you call back to him.

He thinks you’re joking. He arches a brow sarcastically, a small, surprised chuckle leaving him. “If you say so.”

The two of you stand outside the ticket booth arguing over what to see for so long, that you end up missing the showing for the only decent thing the two of you can agree on. John blames it on you. You blame his shit taste in movies. You spend another 10 minutes arguing over who's preferences suck more.

"The next showing isn't for another 2 hours," John sighs. "What the hell are we going to do until then?"

You shrug. "What else is even around here? This is like Bumblefuck, man. There are trees and clouds as far as the eye can see. And not much else. Hey, maybe we can play hide-and-seek in the forest. Sounds like a plan."

He glares at you. "This isn't Bumblefuck. There's stuff to do," he insists.

"Name something."

His lips part to respond before closing. He tries several more times before finally settling on, "well, we could take a walk, I guess? I've only been here maybe three times. I don't really know what stores are here."

You push away from the wall you were leaning against. "Three times? You live like right around the corner."

"No I don't! It's a whole bus trip away!"

You stare for a long moment. You're really not sure what to say here. You've deduced that the kid's been pretty sheltered all his life, but you really weren't sure to what extent. From the way he and his dad talk, you'd think he never leaves the house or something.

"John, what do you do on the weekends?"

He looks as though you've caught him off guard. "On the weekends? I don't know. Hang out and stuff. Why?"

"Hang out where? Skate park? Library? Comic book store? What are you into?"

"Uh," he starts as the two of you head down the sidewalk. "Well mostly, I play around online."

"'Online' is not a legitimate hang out spot. You're aware of this, right? You cannot actually socialize online. Like, you can't meet real people and do real things on the computer. You can't just download some life simulator." You pause. "Well, you could, but, goddamn. That shit is not real."

"Fuck off, Dave." He sighs. "Look, there's a comic store here. Wanna check it out?"

You shake your head. "Not my thing."

His steps falter. "Then why did you ask me earlier if I was into them? Like, why comics?"

"Just wanted to see how nerdy you were." You smirk at the confusion on his face.

"I am not a nerd!"

"Okay, Ghostbusters sheets."

"Stop bringing that up!" he huffs as you enter a game store.

You never end up seeing that damn movie, but you're pleased with the shitty bargain bin games you scored. At only a dollar each, you let yourself get five. John had wrinkled his nose at the sight of them, but you didn't mind. To you, these games are pure fucking gold. Ironic fucking gold. Gold that maybe resembles bronze a little too closely.

You reel your internal metaphor in a little, and greet his father sitting in the living area with his pipe and newspaper. You wonder if he memorizes that thing daily. The man is always reading it, you reason. 

"Did you boys have a good time?"

John shrugs. You nod.

"I guess it was okay. But Dad, Dave is the worst at picking out games. You should see the stuff he bought!"

You shake your head as he prattles on about your poor taste, and use the distraction to make your way up the stairs. It was nice to get out for a while, but the trip has exhausted you a little. It was a long day out in the sun, and you were up damn early. 

Your eyes droop a little as you toss your store bag down, and you end up flopping a little harder than you would've liked onto the blue quilt of the guest bed.

Your body complains about the force, and you let it. You do nothing to scold your back from aching, nor to chastise your hips from throbbing. It's been so many days, and you still hurt from that last client. 

You struggle to remember his name, unsure why it's suddenly so important. 

"Hey, you ready for dinner?"

You glance up, unsurprised at the interruption. 

"Yeah, okay."

You're also unsurprised at the spread of food before you. You've become used to his father's overzealous meals, and you feel a little ashamed of that fact. It doesn’t sit right with you, having so much to eat whenever you want to eat it.

"Nice of you to join us, David."

You give him a small salute before you take your seat.

You spend the meal quietly. Half of your brain is aware of John's excited talking about everything that had happened today, and occassionally lets your mouth respond where it's important to do so to keep up pretenses. The other half of your brain is racking itself trying to remember. You're a little disappointed with yourself. You always remember the faces, the names, the smells. The habits. But this one, you've forgotten. This one escapes you, though his bruises still remain on your body, faded as they are. 

His mark is still on you. You should at least remember who he is.

"Right, Dave?"

You snap back to the present, eyes flicking up to John's eager face. "Uh...what?"

He sighs dramatically. "God, you weren't even listening? I was telling Dad about the guy in the grocery store that tried to sneak out that basket full of food. Remember? He was so ratty looking, Dad."

You do remember. You hadn't said anything at the time, because you remember when, not too long ago, you used to do the same thing. Just a little here and there to supplement your stock when business was slow. Just so that you didn't have to dip into your savings. 

You look to his father to see his reaction. He purses his lips for a moment, and just for that brief second, panic sets in. You wonder what he's going to say. Scold John? Agree with his mindset?

"You know, son," he starts, and you feel your body tense. "One shouldn't judge the circumstances of another. Especially when they are ignorant about them."

He speaks slowly, clearly, his eyes meeting yours behind your shades, and you suddenly feel as naked as you do when you remove them. 

You look at John. He's staring at you with a questioning look on his face, and you don't know what to say to him. 

You manage not to squirm under the weight of both pairs of eyes. "Uh. Hey, thanks for dinner. I'm full. Is it cool if I go to bed?"

You face his father, though your eyes are on John's. As soon as you catch the older Egbert's nod, you leave. 

Your pace is slow until you get out of their lines of sight, then you bolt for your borrowed bedroom, heart racing. 

You hate what you're feeling right now: a heady mix of shame and embarrassment. Anger. Humiliation. Pity. 

Your face falls into your hands as your back hits the mattress. A palm slips free, balling into a fist before meeting the bed in a confrontation of soft fabric and flesh. 

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" you mutter to the palm half-suffocating you. 

Your hand slips, allowing you to peek over the top. You immediately scold yourself for the action. It is not right for you to be expecting the brunet that sleeps down the hall as if he should be at all concerned about your abrupt departure from dinner. 

You sit up, pulling your shades from your face to rub at tired eyes. You turn the television on, though you do not watch it, and pull out your notebook, though you do not write in it. 

You feel awkward, uncomfortable. Suddenly like a stranger in this house you're growing used to. It is not the first time you've questioned your decision to move in here, and it is not the first time you've felt as though you do not belong. Now, however, thinking over John's reaction to the man just trying to get by, you wonder why you ever thought you could live here. Why you ever thought the two of you would be friends. Why you ever let yourself joke with him so easily, sleep in his room. Why you let your guard down around these people.

Your mind wanders to his father's words. You wonder if the old man ever had to live what you did. You wonder again why he would allow you, street garbage, into his home. Why would he let you have contact with his precious sheltered son. Was it to make an example of you? Will there be a surprise party at the end of so many months? A "hey, guess what, John? This loser used to be a whore. Don't end up like him! Stay in school! Have some cake. Here's your thirty day notice, David."

You feel both stupid for allowing yourself to come here, and guilty for thinking such things about the man that gave you a roof over your head and clothes on your back. 

You make your way down the hall, closing the door to the bedroom that was never yours behind you. 

"Hey!" John greets chipperly from his seat at his desk. You had hoped to sneak by him, but lost in your thoughts, you hadn't had the foresight to attempt actual stealthiness. "Thought you were going to bed.”

You lift a shoulder in a shrug. 

He pauses, studying your face. Your shoulders tense a bit, though you know he will find nothing among the careful mask of stoicism that comes so naturally to you. “You uh...wanna play a game or something?"

You hesitate before shrugging again. Before you can even get the chance to form the words, John is onto you.

"That one’s 'Dave' for 'yes, John, I'd fucking love to, but I'm trying too hard to be cool, so I'm just going to shrug and say nothing,' right? Or no? Sometimes, your shrugs are hard to read."

You flinch behind your shades. "Hey man, fuck you. Not my fault you don't know cool when you see it. Blame your daddy for keeping you in the house all the time."

"So...basically, I was completely right, right?" He's grinning like he's just stumbled across a stash of diamonds, and you're surprised at how easily you relax at the sight of it.

"I get to pick the game," you insist, ignoring his words completely in favor of dropping onto his bed--complete with nice clean blue sheets, you're pleased to note. You also ignore the part of your brain that reminds you they're the color of his eyes.

"Nope. My room, my choice."

"Oh fuck that. You invited me. That makes me the guest. Guest always picks. It's like a commandment or something."

He rolls his eyes. "Get your feet off my bed. They smell, dude."

"So I get to pick, then?"

"Are you going to move your feet?"

"Do I get to pick?"

He groans, carding a hand through his hair. "Fine, okay! Whatever! Just...not that shitty game you put in last time, okay? That thing was in like Russian or something. How do you even play a game you don't understand?"

You drape your legs over the side of his bed. "What, Monsters and Toast? That game is the shit."

"That game IS shit."

"Dude, no. You don't even understand. Upgrading toasters to fling scorched bread at abominations of nature? Best thing ever. And the voice acting is top fucking notch."

"You can't even understand what they're saying! How the fuck would you even know?!"

A small smile makes its way to your face, despite what you're telling your brain. "Maybe I speak Russian."

He hesitates as you make your way to his tv stand and pull a case out. "...DO you speak Russian?"

"Maybe. That game's from Finland, though," you inform him.

You hear a huff behind you, then a thud as his body settles itself on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. “Dave, you’re weird.”

“Nah,” you argue, though you don’t offer any evidence to the contrary. 

You take your seat next to him, passing him the second controller. The conversation dies there, choking on the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and protests from either or both of you against obvious personal slights.

“Aw man. I can’t believe he got me again.”

“Told you to stay behind the barrel, bro.”

“Ugh. Shut up!”

That night, you make some excuse about being too tired to move your body to your own room, and John tosses you an extra pillow. He doesn’t argue. His only rule is the one he has spouted off twenty times before: don’t climb into bed with him in the middle of the night, because that is “sort-of really gay.”

You don’t dream that night, and send your thanks skyward when you wake.


End file.
